


my hands are shakin' baby

by KissMyAsh



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Codependency, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sensory Deprivation, Separation Anxiety, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Trauma, Whump, shyan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-08 00:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissMyAsh/pseuds/KissMyAsh
Summary: Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.





	1. The Curious Case of Colleen Stan

**Author's Note:**

> "Demon-proof" only extended to the demons Shane couldn't see, sadly.

_The Curious Case of Colleen Stan_

* * *

It was a normal house; normal being relative, with the murder and all. Though the windows were boarded up and a smashed padlock lay in the wild rose bushes that grew tangled alongside the shutters the house looked rather cozy. One would never suspect that various crimes had been committed just below the tall, dying grass. It didn’t quite bother Shane as much as it first did. He didn’t know if it was his brain dissociating or his skin thickening. It was morbid that the sick cases didn’t touch him as they used to, but it was hard to retain the feeling of disgust when his job literally entailed him crawling through old, ‘haunted’, homes in search of things that didn’t exist. Really, haunted was such a funny word to him; ghosts didn’t haunt things, people did, memories too. The house was a testament to that, with the—_goddamn_—needles lying around like they owned the place. Dark brown coated the tip and dried along the floor and Shane knew what went down in this house even with himself tuning Ryan out minutes prior.

Surprisingly, they weren’t ghost hunting tonight. No, they were on set for an unsolved _True Crime _episode. It was no use denying that _Supernatural_ episodes got the most views, and the obvious answer—_besides fans wanting to see Ryan spooked and Shane dicking around with cold air_—was that _Supernatural_ was more interactive. They actively went out and searched for evidence that ghosts existed, and the bigger bosses wanted the same level of involvement for _True Crime_. So now Shane Madej could say that he was not only, begrudgingly, a ghost hunter but also a part-time sleuth. At the very least the idea held more interest for him than the ghost hunting. Any evidence from the cases would be cleared out by actual professionals long before they got the chance to investigate but it didn’t hurt to return to the scene and get some filler footage while they voiced over their normal script.

They were in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, Oregon. The case, from what he remembered Ryan babbling about, was a fucked up one for sure. Colleen Stan, a lady who had been hitchhiking and accepted a ride from some sorry shithead, had been held captive right below their very feet. Chilling to think about really. That was only what they were covering anyway, over the years as the property degraded several drug deals had taken place and so had one murder. Looking over to his co-host, he snorted. Even in a non-ghost related video he still looked spooked. His eyes bulging and dilated while he constantly checked over his shoulder. It was an endearing trait.

“—Colleen Stan spent _seven years_ as his personal punching bag before Cameron’s wife, Janice, finally called the police.” Shane side-eyed him, it seemed the debriefing was finally over, “Now, you all might be wondering what we are doing out of our Buzzfeed niche,” Ryan paused dramatically as TJ motioned for Shane to stand closer to Ryan, “we’ve decided to uh, hunt out the truth ourselves.”

“What he means to say is that we’ve,” He squinted suspiciously at the camera, “come here to better understand what these victims have endured.”

Devon slipped him a thumbs-up behind TJ’s shoulder at his clever wording. It wasn’t a lie, after all, they did want to make their cases come to life, as to really show the horrors of them. But going to the scene of the crime was a little out of their reach and could even seem unrespectful if spun right.

“You know what that means right?” Shane grinned down at his co-host, “We’re staying _all_ night, baby!”

Ryan paled. He pulled the sleeve of his button-up down slightly, using the cuff to dab away the cold sweat that dotted his hairline, “All night. Yeah. In the, heh, basement. Where she was kept against her will. Fun.”

TJ moved around the house, taking a few snapshots here and there: the mostly clean counters and the well-loved, though ripped, sofa’s testimonies of how deceiving appearances could be. The rest of the footage would be taken from their chest cams and any tripods they set up, just like with _Supernatural_ episodes. Ryan saddled up beside him, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I think that uh, the, you know, most fucked up part, besides from the kidnapping and just about everything else involved, is that Janice got complete fucking immunity.”

“The wife? She was an accomplice!” Janice had been there from the abduction to the release, and she got to walk away untouched. Unbelievable.

“Yeah well, she was the ‘State’s Witness’, so—” The little guy shrugged through the noticeable tension lingering in his shoulders, “—fuck the system?”

“Woah, settle down there Ryan,” Shane ribbed, “your Goldsworth is showing.”

“Hardy har, long legs.” Ryan shot back as he grabbed his sleeping bag. Their phones would remain on the ground floor, on charge, with alarms set around four a.m., two hours before the crew would return to pick them up. They were to stay down in the basement, in the dark, with only a bottle of water to tide them over till morning. One flashlight was given to both of them as an emergency only option. Shane, however, knew that with Ryan around the ‘emergency only’ would be used for everything _but_ emergencies. That’s what editing was for though.

The basement was… well, it was a basement. Even giving that it was too much, he decided as took in the bland, molding walls. Like Shane assumed, the police had swept it clean but that didn’t get rid of the permanent impressions. The roof was low, missing pieces that allowed him to sort-of see up into the kitchen and had chains dangling down to the disgusting floor. A single mattress sat pressed against the left-most wall and looked more ‘vaguely yellow’ than the expected white. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out a spider fixing up its web in the corner, completely undisturbed by their presence. It was impossible to think that something would actually want to inhabit the basement. 

He idly wondered if he’d have to burn his shoes after this; he didn’t think the grime would ever completely come out of his soles.

“Jesus.” Came out of his mouth rather than a witty remark.

Ryan nodded sympathetically, “Yeah, I know. Just knowing that someone had to spend years down here gives me the chills. I mean, me walking in here has just given me like, four, diseases.”

“Keep your diseases to yourself, buddy.” He snorted and shifted his hand-held camera to face Ryan, “So, we’ve got time to kill before our ‘rescue’ arrives for us. Why don’t we try to immerse ourselves?”

Ryan took a good long look at the manacles that glinted maliciously in the flashlight’s luminescence, “Do we _have_ to?” His tanned face distorted, a mixture of both fear, disgust, and reluctance.

“Well the purpose of this is to really understand the trauma of the victim, right? If you don’t want to be the Anastasia to my Mr. Grey then that’s fine.” Shane offered, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable.

“No, no, you’re right.” Placing down his own equipment Ryan shuffled over to the hanging shackles, eyeing them as if they were his noose. His hands reached up, causing his sleeves to shrink back over his forearms and his shirt to rise up, revealing a soft patch of beige skin. Masculine fingers poked and prodded at the metal before Ryan finally felt a little more comfortable, “Alright big guy, cuff me.”

Well. That certainly was a statement.

Shane nodded anyway, switching off his phone camera for more dexterity. They didn’t have the key to the cuff’s so he put them on their loosest, reassured that Ryan could slip out anytime he wanted.

“So,” he asked, stepping back and admiring his work, “you _hanging_ in there, man?”

Nervous giggles fluttered out of his co-hosts mouth; the man was forced onto his tiptoes to stop his shoulders from arching into an awkward angle. By the way he was shifting and curling his hand Shane could tell the blood flow was starting to decrease.

“This is weird man; how do people get off on this?”

Shane shrugged, “Different strokes for different folks?”

The chains clinked together as Ryan twisted his wrists out of their entrapment, “Well, this was a great learning experience, but I don’t think I’ll try this again at home.”

“You just made at least half of the BDSM community weep,” A snort from Ryan, “and just think of the poor fanfiction writers, you cut their content down by a fraction.” A dirty look was shot his way, but he shrugged it off. It was true after all, writers tended to go for the clichés.

They each took their time inspecting the basement and trying to get comfortable in the stale, sort of musty atmosphere. The place was in dire need of a house-flipper. Or demolition. Whichever came first.

“I think we can set the ‘bags down here?” Ryan murmured, completely changing the subject, and gestured to the mostly untouched spot in the middle of the cement prison, “I don’t see any questionable stains.” He agreed and plopped his bad next to Ryan's, making sure to leave three feet of no-bro-mo room for Ryan.

If Shane expected this to be any different from a _Supernatural_ sleepover, he was wrong. They had settled down into their sleeping bags, like normal, only Shane couldn’t fall into the effortless sleep like normal. The rolling wave of nausea that came with being in a Rapists’ basement wasn’t an easy one to ride out. He lay on his stomach, his head tilted towards Ryan, who wouldn’t keep still. He figured Ryan’s insomnia was less brought on by the house’s history and more about the sounds that filtered in through the creaking floorboards above. Hell, he’d even give it to the little guy tonight, it really sounded like footsteps.

“—fuck it,” Ryan near whined as he scooted his sleeping bag until it was near on top of Shane’s, “I’m coming closer.” Sallie house déjà vu, welcome aboard.

“There’s no possible way for you to get closer to me, Ryan.” He pointed out without any real bite. The heat Ryan omitted would make him feel better anyway.

They lay there like that for a while, and it’s not awkward at all, really. Ryan wasn’t complaining about their proximity and there was no pillow barrier placed annoyingly against Shane’s side. It,_ dare he say it in a rape dungeon_, was comfortable. He could feel the hot air blowing softly around his neck and small bagged feet pressing against his shins. It was relaxing. Shane almost felt like he was back at home, with the illusion of Ryan—_Sara—_snuggling into his chest. The tapping from upstairs acting as the placebo ticking of a clock. With the added sensory details, he was easily lulled into a light doze.

After what feels like hours a soft, “Shane?” tickled his ear. He considers not replying, considers sinking deeper into sleep but Ryan’s breath hitches the way it does when something is wigging him out and Shane knows if he doesn’t reply now Ryan is only going to get more insufferable as the night passes.

He means to ask ‘what?’ but instead, “Mmghlr,” slips out of his mouth and into his pillow. Ryan must have reached out for the emergency flashlight because the next thing he knew blinding white light burned into his eyelids. Oddly, it was a pain he accompanied with his younger counter-part; this wasn't the first time he's woken up to a flashlight in his face and Ryan curled on top of him.

“Did you hear that?”

“No.”

He could almost feel Ryan’s unimpressed stare. Little guy was getting pretty good at it, too. Shane almost had goosebumps. Digging his palm into his blurry eye socket he pushed himself up, only to knock his head against Ryan’s chin. Ryan, despite encroaching into Shane’s personal space bubble didn’t even seem phased as his eyes remained glued to the floorboards above. Dust fell in dimes in time with each creak of the dry-rotted wood. He could see the vague outline of a humanoid figure bobbing in the minuscule light. He'd need his glasses for further examining. His friend's knee dug into his ribs as he tried to both climb and merge into Shane's skin.

Oh boy.

“Maybe it’s the chunky raccoon from the Yuma Territorial Prison?” Shane tried lamely.

“_Shane_.” Ryan hissed back at him, “Now’s not the time for jokes, man. I think… I think that there’s somebody in here with us.” His jaw clenched as more footsteps joined the first pair.

“Okay, okay, look—worst-case scenario: angry hobos.” Ryan’s hand shook minutely, any moment now and his co-host would freak out. Shane could recognize the symptoms of a Bergara grade level panic attack in the works. Placing his hand over Ryan’s he clicked the flashlights button sending them back into the dark. His friend whined and tried to fight his hand off, eager to be able to see.

“—what the fuck, dude, let _go_,” Ryan said through gritted teeth. His shaking had doubled, and Shane was forced to pull him flush into his lap in order to restrain him.

“They—if there really is someone up there— don’t know we’re down here, Ryan. I want to keep it that way.” Shane argued as he pried the flashlight from Ryan’s clammy hand. He tried to tell himself that his accelerated heart rate was due to his brief physical activity.

“They’re going to know Shane! We left half of our shit up there remember?!” His partner nearly sobbed as he remained glued to Shane’s front. Ryan’s hands had moved to his forearms, gripping them hard enough that he’d probably have bruises tomorrow.

“No, they’ll know someone _was_ here, they won’t know that we’re _still_ here. If we can just stay quiet, and not alert _whoever—_hobo or raccoon—that we’re on the property then we’ll be fine.” Okay, maybe Shane wasn’t handling things as calmly as he normally did. To be fair he’d like to reiterate that they were A, in the middle of bumfuck-no-where, B, in a house that showed no signs of disuse or repair and C, kind-of-_really_ fucking tired. The house was well insulated enough that it would surprise Shane if squatters _didn’t_ settle here from time to time.

From above, the racket only increased, shutting his eyes he tried to even out his breathing. It was hard to do with a potential squatter snorting coke over their heads. Maybe Ryan really was starting to rub off on him too much, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this anxious. Exhaling through his nose he categorized the noises he could make out: the steady, if loud, sound of his own heart, Ryan’s irregular breathing, and bigfoot’s cousin having a tap dance recital on the first floor. The wood groaned under the pressure, the boards wobbling slightly causing the chains that were attached to clink against each link.

The sound decreased after a prolonged drag, it could've been seconds, or maybe minutes, Shane hadn't bothered to count. Ryan’s taught body finally slumped against his own. His fingertips leaving Shane’s sore arm. Black, slightly gel-stiff hair tickled his chin and he wasted no time in burying his face in it. “Thank god,” Ryan wheezed.

“I told you—” In the relative silence, the loud, obnoxiously upbeat ringtone seemed like a guillotine, “—_fuck_.”

Ryan immediately turned those beady little eyes on him, his skin, normally a pretty tan was near ashen, “Shane!” One of his smaller, sweatier hands tugged at his hair. The footsteps returned, this time accompanied by the sound of metal crunching. His ringtone stopped. A voice, or _four_, spoke up in return.

They were jumbled, all of them deep, and near impossible to distinguish. The floorboards rattled and whined, not caring for the abuse it was undergoing. A few splinters fell into Shane’s hair as he all but merged into Ryan’s body. Something heavy hit the floor and something told him if they were to go up, a couch or table would be demolished. So much for their company being friendly.

If they were lucky nobody would check the basement.

If they played it safe, they could make it out with the loss of his phone, and their wallets.

If they were unfortunate… well, Shane could take a few bruises and he was sure Ryan could dish a few out.

God did he hope that it really was just a bunch of pissed off hobo’s over, say, a group of angry and or spiteful skinheads. If it came down to a fight, there wasn’t much he’d be able to do. He was a pacifist at heart despite his verbal aggression. His limbs were far too floppy, and he didn’t even have the dedication to continue with his gym membership. Running was off the table for him too, his stamina was shit. Ryan though… he looked down at the cowering man buried in his sweater. Ryan could easily outrun him and go get help. If he wasn’t prone to anxiety attacks.

Case and point: they were both fucked.

“Ryan,” he murmured into the younger man’s hair, “buddy, we have to get up.” If Shane could transfer them over to the wall maybe, it would at the very least give them a few more seconds of visibility—

—a glass shattered upstairs.

Wiggling out of his sleeping bad while managing not to jostle Ryan was no easy feat, but he accomplished it. He cringed as his socked feet touched the gunk covered floor, but it was the least of his worries. His eye caught on the bed, it wasn’t elevated very far off the ground, and it was maybe the size of a twin but one of them could fit.

Getting up on his very shaky legs, he struggled under his friend’s bulk. It seemed that Ryan had zoned completely out, not even shooting out garbled sentences, “C’mon baby, work with me, _please_.”

The mess above sounded like it was getting closer. They must have checked every nook and cranny upstairs and were coming down to check the basement. Shane wondered if this was the fear Ryan felt at the Sallie house. The paranoia, the waiting for _something_ to happen. It was only a matter of time.

Pinching the delicate skin at the base of his partner’s wrist he was relieved that Ryan had the conscious to jerk away. Tears were streaming down Ryan’s cheeks as his eyes desperately sought an answer from Shane. It was a shame he didn’t have one to give.

“Hey little guy, it’s okay but I need you to do something for me okay?” Ryan shook his head, his fingers clamping down like a vice on Shane's pullover. Pursing his lips, he tried to coax Ryan into listening, “C’mon baby,” he ran his hands up and down Ryan’s shoulders the best he could with most of his mobility being hindered by Ryan’s grip, “I need you to hide under the bed for me, okay?”

“No,” Ryan shuttered out, his bottom lip jutted out and trembling, “no, no—”

“Ryan.” Shane exhaled, the door to the basement would be swinging open at any moment, “Shhh.”

“What about you?” In their close proximity, Shane could make out the bob of Ryan’s adam apple, the shivering of his jaw, the slope of his wet lashes. And fuck, it really wasn’t the time for it, but Shane couldn’t move. He knew he needed to take charge, _make_ Ryan put his ass into gear but he couldn’t because the situation was turning out into a whole fucking train wreck. He pried Ryan’s hands off of his shirt and twined their fingers together.

Wood scraped against wood.

“I’m here,” he reassured, dry-mouthed, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The metallic creak of the door hinges seemed to scream in the oppressive silence.

“Shane,” Ryan whispered, too afraid to do much else.

God, he hoped it was the crew pranking them.

The light fixture above their heads clicked on. The stairs spoke to him, whispered the danger approaching, with each step taken. Between the gaps in the bars, he could see scruffy tennis shoes. They were soon joined by meaty fingers, with uneven cuticles and bleeding nails. Various scars overlapped one another on ashy knuckles.

Shane’s legs gave out, plummeting both himself and Ryan onto the sticky cement.

Ryan buried his face into Shane’s neck.

A man, shorter than Shane and sporting both a bat and a buzz cut smiled, “I found you fuckers,” he laughed though it was throaty and sounded painfully dry, “how’d ya’ know we’d be here tonight? Were you waitin’ on us? _Watchin’_ us?!”

“Richard! The fuck you talkin’ to?” Someone else called from the doorway.

“I found ‘em!” The guy—Richard—spasmed, “I found the fuckin’ rats! Down here the whole time! They heard! They heard everythin’!”

Shane felt sick, felt the illness spread from his throat all the way down to his numb knees. This was going so, so wrong, and out of hand. These weren’t the type of people you talked it out with, these were the people you saw on the street and ran the other way. Just keeping his eyes peeled was a struggle, he felt that if he blinked for even a second Richard would lung across the room and slit his throat.

Against his chest he could feel Ryan hyperventilating, his broad chest rising and falling so fast that Shane was scared that he’d induce a heart attack. The fast-paced _thump-thump-thump_ of the little guy’s heart wasn’t helping Shane’s conscious any either.

“Wait—” For possibly the first time in his life he genuinely felt tongue-tied, “no, man you got it wrong.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Richard roared, the bat he held swinging out and denting the banister. Ryan shrank back further into his chest and Shane could feel the tears running down his neck wetting his shirt collar.

“_Fuck, fuck, what the actual fuck_.” Shane tightened his grip on Ryan hoping he’d get the hint and ‘_shut the fuck up’_. His eyes burned slightly, becoming aware of just how bad this was turning out to be. How were they supposed to get out of _this_?

“It’s just the two of ‘em?” A higher, but smoother voice descended from the stairway, the echoes of many more following it. This guy looked far better than Richard, less twitchy, more _aware_. He was mixed, Shane assumes, and his hair was neatly styled. A lit cigarette was drooping from his lip and Richard flinched whenever the man clapped a hand on his shoulder. He gave both Shane and Ryan a look over, looking both disgusted and intrigued at the same time, “It’s just two fags, Rich. Look at the little one; he wants ta’ piss himself.”

“The big one was tryna’ get smart wit’ me, I’m tellin’ you! They know about the deal! They’ll fuckin’ rat us out!” He twitched, his fingers curling and uncurling against the bat’s smooth handle. Shane’s eyes were drawn to the blue bandanna adorning both of their outfits.

“Fuck off,” Boss waved his hand dismissively, “they ain’t know shit. They ain’t squatters though, them cameras upstairs look expensive.” From his jean pocket, he pulled out an untouched—Ryan’s—phone.

Three more men wandered down the staircase. All of them were equally buff and looked to be doped up on something. One guy had tattoo’s smeared across his face, another had rings on each finger, and the last had both his head, eyebrows, and jaw clean-shaven.

All of them adorning a blue bandanna.

“What’cha want us to do with ‘em?” Tattoo’s asked.

Boss clicked his tongue, his fingers scratching at the gruff outlining his face. He looked at them pensively for a moment, his eyes darting from Shane’s—who was too scared to blink—and then to Ryan’s shivering body. “Well,” he finally spoke, drawing each word out, “you fellas can see why we _can’t_ let ya’ go.” Boss sighed, taking a heavy drag of his cigarette. His fingers tapped against the light denim of his jeans, “I hate to do this, I really do. Can’t have ya’ll snitchin, you know?”

“Please,” Shane snapped his head down to Ryan, who finally managed to pull himself together for the first time tonight, “We—we’re _not_—not going to say a word. I promise. Please.” He whimpered.

Boss eyed him too closely for Shane’s liking. He played with the phone in his hands, his fingers sliding right on the screen before a bright white light illuminated the contours of his face, “Tell me… Ryan? Where do you two come from?”

Ryan stilled, his face leaving the crook of Shane’s neck and leaving his shoulder feeling cold. Any chance of remaining anonymous defeated by Ryan’s reflex, “What?”

“Where you two from? It’s not a hard question.” Boss reiterated though his eyes pinched annoyingly by the temples.

“Los Angeles.”

“Hmm.” He hummed, the screen scrolling past and it took Shane a second to realize he was looking through Ryan’s emergency information. Cold seized his chest and itched at his ribs at the sheer flippancy this jackass had, “And how’s Jake doin’?”

Ryan sobbed, “_Please_—”

“Ahh, ahh, ahh,” Rings hissed, “he asked you a question. It’d be rude to not answer.”

“He’s fine.” Ryan spat out, his face twisted to something nasty, but Shane could still feel the vibrations traveling from his body.

“Uh-huh. He a brother, right? I had one.” Boss chuckled, “Fuckin’ hated him, little bitch. Mom’s favorite ya’ know? Her baby.”

His friend licked his lips, “...had?”

“Ah, you know how it goes; fights between siblings, that is.” And that was all he said about that.

It was a tense few moments, the scorching glare of Ryan fizzling out under the icy weight of the Bosses own. Shane was almost glad when Ryan shrunk back into his chest, drained. He immediately wrapped Ryan uptight, his limbs trying their best to hide the little guy from any more duress.

“Just one more question; last one, scouts honor.” Boss slunk over to them, the wretch-worthy smell of tobacco wafting from his body. Shane scrunched his nose up and subtly tilted his chin back into Ryan’s sweaty, though still fresh, smelling hair. His deft fingers pulled the cancer stick from his mouth and just as gracefully stubbed it out mere millimeters from Shane’s foot. His smile was too-wide, pulling at the skin around his eyes and revealing yellow, crooked teeth. His head leveled until he was eye-to-eye with Shane, “Where’d ‘a work? For the big rigs, right? All that tech up there, it ain’t cheap.”

“For a filming company.” He stutters out, not feeling as brave as so many give him credit for, “Simple stuff.” It was hard to choke the words out, hard to think straight, really.

“A film company?” Bosses tongue rolls out of his mouth and licks at his teeth, “Y’all must be pretty special for ‘em to send out into the field. Get paid to do the filming or paid to be filmed?” He was getting more inquisitive, more focused on their occupation and Shane didn’t like that at all.

“Filmed.” Biting at his lip he glanced up at the decaying floorboards, hoping, desperately wishing TJ and Devon would _and_ wouldn’t return.

“Wow, hear that boys? We’ve got a couple of celebs,” Boss snickered prompting the four other goons to as well, “have to treat ‘em with respect, you know?”

Richard and Tattoo crowded around the boss, Richard looking far too swing happy. Rings, who had, for the most part, stayed slumped in the shadows moved forward, in his hands were burlap cloth and Shane felt very, very, sick.

“Hey man, wait, c’mon—just take the wallets, cameras _fuck_—” The guy with the completely shaved face had slipped out of Shane’s perspective at some point and had materialized behind him. His warm, damp hands latched onto Shane’s hair and jerked his head back; Shane fumbled, his arms trying to pull Ryan in as another set of hands tried to pull Ryan away.

The bat—_it had to be that fucking bat_—knocked into his throat and his hands released their vice around Ryan. Anxiety lurched into his chest and he scrambled to find the warm body previously pressed against his own, his long legs were pinned down and the burlap sack was thrown over his head the moment he managed to free it from the grabby asshole behind him.

He heard his co-host scream and he redoubled his effort; his fingernails buried under someone’s skin and hot air brushed against his neck reeled back and cracked his head back onto the pavement. A persistent migraine blossomed around his eyes and sung static into his ear. 

Vertigo traveled up and down his spine before he gave into the woozy black that smothered his sight.

His hand reached out for Ryan, one last time.


	2. We Were Never Meant For Do or Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We Were Never Meant For Do or Die
> 
> Tags for this chapter:  
Torture (Non-Graphic)  
Mention of Mental Disorder (Medicated)  
Panic Attack  
Injury

Cotton filled his mouth tickling the back of his throat and scratching at the sensitive skin there. His tongue felt like led, heavy and coated with a god-awful taste. Flexing his arms, he grunted as they were forced back down into a locked position. Digging his face forward he winced, his forehead scraping against a hard, grainy surface.

“Ryan?” Shane said from somewhere further in the room, his voice unusually high and shaky.

He managed to hum in response though he couldn’t bring himself to pick his head up. He was filled with an abnormal sluggishness that he hadn’t experienced since he switched off of a disagreeing medicine. It had been a long time ago and never became relevant again since he used his free time at the gym to burn off most of his energy. Had he drunk too much? Where would they have even gone to get drinks?

“Ryan.” Shane croaked again, his foot kicking Ryan in the thigh and sending pain up his spine.

“...ow, goddamnit.” His lips parted involuntarily peeling back the layer of dry skin that had stuck together in his sleep. Wetting them, or trying to, with his dry tongue was a long, laborious task that left everything from the neck up sore.

“Thank God,” his co-host sighed. Ryan cracked his eyes open, the dim lighting a live-saver that went easy on the horrible pounding ricocheting off the walls of his skull. He heard tiny sniffles and soon became aware of the wrongness in his observation, “I thought, _fuck_.” Ryan was on his stomach, his jeans not doing shit to protect from the chill of the cement below. His feet were freezing, too. Curling his toes, he bemoaned the fact that they, too, felt bruised and sore.

“What happened?” He asked softly, too scared to raise his voice.

Shane laughed, and it was _ugly_; what came out of the taller man's mouth sounded more fit to a dying animal than a man, “What _didn’t_ happen!” Peering to his right—_and wishing he didn’t_—he was left speechless.

His co-worker, friend—_partner_—looked like shit. Not the ‘partied ‘till I dropped’ or the 'I stayed up all night editing' type of shit either; he looked like he had been mugged and then dropped off of the nearest bridge. His nose looked crooked, blood staining his lip and cheek and matting the hair by his temple. Those soft brown eyes were unsteady, never focusing on one part of the room for too long. Bruises dotted his temple and dragged down his jaw. His arms were wrapped tightly in duct tape while zip ties bound his ankles. “Shane?” His friend’s head bobbled and slumped onto his shoulder, “Hey man, don’t—c’mon.” He whined. Fear was started to itch at his lungs and that was the last thing he needed. He had to keep a straight head, for Shane, “Big guy? Are… are you all there?”

A wheeze, “where else would I go?”

If he still had enough in him to be sarcastic then it couldn’t be that bad. Right? He wiggled, his body protesting the entire time. Getting on to his knees was the easy part, though his screaming abdominal muscles begged to differ. No, the taxing process would be maneuvering himself over to Shane without the use of his arms, the both of which were glued rather tightly behind his back. His partner watched him warily, not making any move to help.

“Sit back down Ryan.” What the fuck?

“Sit down—_do you hear yourself_? We’ve got to get out of here man I’m like _this_ close to—" Shane hissed at him to be quiet, and Ryan reluctantly allowed himself to be cut off despite the hurt feelings that bubbled in his veins.

“There’s no '_getting out of this'_! They’re going to fucking kill us!” His co-host gripped, face flushed. His shoulders were shaking, and Ryan wasn’t sure if it was because he was crying or because he was angry.

“Don’t say that! Please don’t think like that man.” Ryan whispered. Closing his eyes, he nursed the thought, unable to completely ignore it but not wanting to accept it. One of them was already losing their shit, someone had to stay reasonable and God, wasn’t _that_ funny? Ryan Bergara, the reasonable one. Last night came back to him in flashes, his cowardice being the forerunner in every scene. He had been so content to just hide away in Shane’s arms like a pissant.

“I’m—!” Shane seethed, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m…” His voice broke.

“It’s okay. I should be the sorry one.” Ryan murmured. Readjusting his legs, he brought them up enough so that he could bury his face into the gap between his knees. If he hadn’t agreed to film on location none of this would have happened. Shane was just too nice to say so. Tears pricked the back of his eyes as he finally let the situation sink in.

“Ryan… I didn’t mean—!”

Blunt knocking pulled their attention away from their self-induced pity party. The cellar door smoothly sliding open and casting soft rays of fluorescent light into Ryan’s face. A soft sugary perfume drifted from the open door, taunting him. In the door, Boss, and a young woman—_prostitute_—stood tall. His arm draped around her irritated skin and her body pressed as close as possible to his chest. The click-clack of the lady’s heels only aggravating his headache.

“Mornin’ boys. Slept well?” Boss asked as he lit up a cigarette, taking a drag before passing it to the female’s lips. He didn’t seem nonplused by the lack of response. Smoke crawled out of his nose flowing upwards and dancing around the ceiling before dispersing. The man rubbed at his chin, his eyes lighting up with unheard laughter, “I’ve got to give it to you two! By now most men would have been beggin’ and bawlin’ for me to let’em go. But not ya’ll, naw, you two are made of tougher shit, huh? That’s good. That’s _promising_.” Ryan repressed the urge to shudder. This guy was terrifying—he was charismatic; if he had met this man on the street Ryan probably would have grabbed a beer with him and never would have been any the wiser. Fuck, didn’t Ted Bundy or someone start like this?

Jesus Christ, they could be the next _Unsolved_ Missing person’s case.

And yeah, Ryan was panicking.

Goddamnit Bergara.

“If you two cooperate then I think this friendship will go smoothly.” Boss laughed, his hand running over his fresh faded cut. Their captor was dressed to the nine’s today, a slick jacket and fine pressed white shirt over professional slacks. In comparison, Ryan felt filthy. He hadn’t had a bath in God knows how long, and his clothing was less than pristine. He felt uncomfortable making eye contact, so he dropped it.

Rolling his shoulders, he glanced over at Shane, who had gone quiet. Ryan was beginning to suspect that the dried blood coating Shane’s hair wasn’t from his nose. The man looked out of it, half dozing while his eyes fluttered open in tiny intervals as if he was afraid to let himself succumb to unconsciousness. Biting at his lip he decided to bite the bullet, for Shane, “Can,” he stuttered, a hot feeling of embarrassment pooling underneath his belly-button and curling around his legs, “you help him?” Boss leaned back, not sparing a glance at Shane. “I think he’s hurt, badly, and I don’t know how to help.”

“Why should I?” The lady trapped under his arm squirmed, her fingers wrapping around bosses’ hand that held like a vice over her waist. She cooed softly, batting her eyelashes and rubbing her leg over his in an attempt to soothe his ire.

“I’ll do anything, man.” He spoke truthfully.

“Anything?” Boss seemed pleased. “Well, when you say it like that how could I say no?” His hands disappeared into his pockets and returned with a tiny flip-phone. Within minutes two men had stumbled down the stairs and had lifted Shane up.

“Wait— where are they taking him?” He whimpered, tears starting to trace his cheeks as the idea of being left alone rattled him more than he’d like to admit.

“Shh, they gon’ patch him up nice and new.” Boss crouched, shaking off his companion as he did so. The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were smiling. Something in him—_his hindbrain?_ —tensed, sending alarms blaring down his spine. The uncomfortable sensation traversing through skin, muscle, and sinew before making itself home in his bones. It felt like it was ripping away at his nerves, making everything a million more times more sensitive and painful. His kidnapper's hand rested on his cheek, warm fingers tracing the swell of his cheek and smoothing over the stubble of his chin.

“Hospital,” he rasped, “He needs a hospital.” 

Boss didn’t bother to reply. His thumb rested on Ryan’s lip, toying with the flesh before slipping inside of his mouth. It hooked over his bottom teeth and using his newly gained leverage Boss jerked Ryan forward. He whined and tried to pull away, his jaw aching at the force applied. His cigarette, burning away and previously forgotten made an appearance before Ryan’s eyes. Sweat dotted his brow. Sirens sounded off in his ears. He shook his head minutely, his arms strained against his bindings as Boss pressed his nail into the bed of Ryan’s tongue. Saliva flooded his mouth. And the scene felt odd, too intimate, even.

The cigarette came close enough for the smoke to burn his eyes.

It lifted, lifted, lifted—

A flush rose to the Bosses cheeks as he took the smoking bud and he— _he pressed it down to the inside _

_of _

_Ryan’s_

_ bottom _

_lip._

"Fu_cK!_" He shrieked, his entire body lurching,"_—Get the fuck_ away!" to his own ears he sounded pathetic. His words slurred and near incomprehensible. Boss only held on tighter; pushed harder.

Gurgles caught in the back of his throat, tears flooding his face as he sobbed and whined. Spasms wracked up and down his body. Static lined his palms, the hurt of his nails digging into his skin nothing compared to the sound of hearing his own flesh sizzle. Already he could feel his lip swelling, blood rushing under the surface and muscle throbbing in time with his racing heart.

_Stop it_, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t.

It felt like his jaw was wired shut, electrified. The pain only amplified by the grit of his teeth. Spit dripped out of his mouth involuntarily. He blinked rapidly trying to clear the spots from his eyes; cleanse the blurry lens that fitted over his pupils.

_It hurts_.

Boss hummed softly, smearing the tears that fell down Ryan’s face. Ryan hiccupped wanting to be rid of his touch and pain, but he leaned into Bosses open arms anyway. His face was cushioned by the man’s expensive jacket and his hands smoothed down Ryan’s back, comforting him.

_This is fucked_.

But he didn’t pull away he needed—_He needed this_. Disgust crawled under his skin, it was wrong and disgusting to want this man’s touch, but he felt _so raw_. The burn felt like an anchor, and all of the walls he had built to stop himself from crumbling were failing. This was _real_. They were caught in some sick gang bullshit and they were going to fucking _die_.

Lips caressed the shell of his ear, “ya’ look so pretty when you cry, dove.”

Convulsions wracked his chest, his lungs sputtering and desperate to trap oxygen. He couldn’t breathe; every inhale rubbed his lip wrong bringing on a fresh wave of agony. He couldn’t think and he didn’t want to either. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that the smell of smoke wasn’t there; that he was holding onto Shane, who was all angles and broad and everything was okay.

Shane had to be okay.

God, let him be okay.


End file.
